The Aviators

by W. E. B Griffin

  âśI'll check with the PIO," Oliver said.

  "You check with the PIO," Bellmon parroted. "He generally prepares a statement for me. I do not-not-want to talk to them. Make sure that what he has me say is the right thing and then tell him to release it.âť

  âśI could call and read it over the phone, Sir.âť

  âśNo. If you don't have enough sense to know what should, and should not, be said, you shouldn't be working for me. Just call and tell me that the PIO is handled.âť

  âśYes, Sir.âť

  âśYour car is at the office?âť

  âśYes,. Sir. âś

  âśWell, then Go see the PIO and then you can takeoff.âť

  âśI'm available, Sir, for anything else you need me for.âť

  âśThere is a hoary old Army saying, Captain Oliver," Bellmon said, "that you should never counsel an officer, or for that matter, a corporal, in the hearing of his peers or juniors, when you perceive that he has done something he should not have done and when you wish to make sure he does not make the same error in the future.âť

  âśYes, Sir?" Oliver said,' not sure where Bellmon was leading.

  "That applies to what is next on my agenda. I am about to have a piece of the surgeon and those two medical clowns who went to see Mrs. Dant, and I don't think it would be a good idea if you were there when I tear it off."

  [TWO]

  1440 Hours 12 January 1964

  The public information officer, a lieutenant colonel, seemed a little discomfited when Captain Oliver deleted several words, changed several others, and added a few more to the statement the PIO had prepared for the General to issue. And. he was a little more discomfited when the Captain told him he could release it that way.

  "You don't think the General would want to initial it?âť

  âśNo, Sir, that's just fine the way you wrote it.âť

  âśI would hate to put something out that he didn't like," the PIO said.

  "So would I, but he told me to do it," Oliver said. "May - I use your phone, Sir?âť

  âśHelp yourself.âť

  âśOffice of the Commanding General, sergeant major speaking, Sir.âť

  âśOliver, Sergeant Major. Is he available?âť

  âśNo, Sir, he is not."

  "What's going on?âť

  âśHe's eating three assholes new assholes, Sir, and may I offer the comment that he's doing so with great skill and artistry?âť

  âśWell, they deserve it."

  "Yeah, they do," the sergeant major said. "Something I can do for you, Captain?âť

  âśTell him when he's finished that everything's OK at the PIO. âś

  âśYes, Sir.âť

  âśAnything for me to do there, Sergeant Major?âť

  âśCan't think of a thing, Sir.âť

  âśThen I guess I'm through," Oliver said. "I won't be leaving the post, if I'm needed, Sergeant. Try Annex #1 if I'm not in my room.âť

  âśAll work and no play, Captain," the sergeant major said.

  "That applies to sergeants major, too, Sergeant Major." The sergeant major chuckled and hung up.

  "Thank you, Colonel," Oliver said, and left the PIO office, a small frame ex-orderly room building. He got in the Pontiac and then remembered the film in the Minox. He was supposed to turn it over to-the Aviation Board, but only after he'd had a set of prints made for the General.

  When he drove to the Post Signal Photo Lab, he found that it was closed. Then he told himself he should have known better, it was Saturday. But the Aviation Board had its own photo lab, a mile or so away, and it was open. Although they were busy, when he told the DA civilian-in-charge what he had, 'he souped the film immediately. And then, in what Oliver thought was a remarkably short time, he produced a stack of wet 81/2 X 11 prints.

  "If you were to feed them to the drier, Captain" The drier was an enormous stainless steel drum. Prints were laid glossy side down on the drum, which was heated and slowly rotated. In one revolution of the drum, the prints were dried. Because it was such a slow process, Oliver was almost forced to study what the photographs showed. They had been expertly cropped during enlargement, producing up close views of the pilots dead in the cockpit, the crew chief dead in the fuselage, and the tom-off engines and broken fuselage. And the photo lab had obligingly made two copies of each, which forced Oliver to examine them twice so he could separate them into two sets.

  "One of these stacks for the Board?" he called to the DA civilian. "No. I'm going to make eleven-by-fourteens for them," the DA civilian said. "You're pretty good with that Minox, Captain. âś

  âśThank you." When all the prints were dried, and in two envelopes, Oliver drove by Post Headquarters-; Neither the staff car nor any of Bellmon's cars were in the parking lot, but~ the sergeant major's glistening four-year-old Cadillac was there, with its red (for enlisted) post decal, No.1, so he went in.

  "All work and no play, Sergeant Major," Oliver said.

  "He said you'd be by with the pictures," the sergeant major said.

  Interesting. I guess he expected me to have them printed before I quit. What if I 'd forgotten?

  "Here they are, two sets," Oliver said.

  "I'll take one," the sergeant major said. "He won't want two. You hang on to the others. I'll have the FOD's driver take them to Quarters # 1.âťThe sergeant major took the pictures out, examined them carefully, then put them back in the envelope. "Hell of a way to buy the farm," he said. "They must have known for a long time they were going to get it.âť

  âśYeah. Why don't I put this set in the safe?âť

  âśBecause I just gave the keys and the log to the FOD. and we'd have to go through all that when-was-it-opened-and-why and-by-who bullshit if you did," the sergeant major said.

  "OK. Tell me, Sergeant Major, what is the classification status of material that will be classified before it's actually officially classified?âť

  âśI thought you were a nice guy, Captain;" the sergeant major said, "but nice guys don't ask questions. like that of a tired old sergeant."

  Oliver laughed; and, taking the envelope with the pictures in it, he walked out of the office and drove to the BOQ.

  Joe Newell's MGB of Many Colors was nowhere in sight, and Oliver was disappointed. He didn't want to go to Annex #1. The word that the Chinook had gone in would by now be common knowledge allover the post, and the guys in the annex would regard the General's dog-robber as a prime, source for the straight poop on what had happened. And when the General's dog-robber declined to go into details, it would confirm the general consensus that dog-robbers as a class were uppity pricks who thought they were better than other people.

  It would have been nice if Jose had been around to share a drink, but since he wasn't, Oliver decided to have one anyway. He hung his blouse in the closet, pulled down his tie, and made himself a stiff drink of the good scotch, reminding himself as he sat down to be careful. If he spilled booze on his trousers, it would be necessary to have the whole damned uniform dry-cleaned. Otherwise the blouse and trousers would be of a different hue, and that was not permitted for a dogrobber.

  After he finished the first drink, he decided, (a) to change out of the trousers, which were still pressed sharply enough for another day's wear; and (b) to have another drink of the ordinary scotch. But just then the telephone rang. It was his telephone, the one, in other words, listed in his own name.

  "Captain Oliver. âś

  âśJohnny, this is Liza Wood." Who?

  "Hello, Liza Wood.âť

  âśI just wanted to apologize for climbing allover you." Nice voice. Who the hell is Liza Wood? . . . Apologize?

  "What?âť

  âśI said, I just wanted to apologize" Liza Wood said, and interrupted herself. "you don't have any idea who I am, do you?âť

  âśSure, I do.âť

  âśNo, you' don't," she said, and laughed, and he liked the sound of her laugh, too. "The Dragon Lady," she added. "I heard what you said to Geoff Craig in the carport. "Oh." Liza Wood is the
Dragon Lady; that makes her that spectacular redhead in the Roaring Twenties hairdo who slammed the door in our face at the Dants'.. Of course. She said' 'carport. âś

  âśIf you heard that, Miss. . . Mrs.? . . . Wood, then I owe you an apology.âť

  âśYou really don't remember me, do you?" she replied, as sadly, he thought, as surprised. "It's Mrs. Wood. I'm Allan Wood's wife. Widow."

  The image of Allan Wood-First Lieutenant Allan M. Wood- Artillery, Texas Aggie, classmate in Fixed Wing Class OFW 61-17, blond-headed, barrel-chested, thicknecked, Rebel-appeared instantly in Oliver's mind's eye. And then, as clearly, he saw Mrs. Wood. Not the high-fashion, tough-as-nails Dragon Lady, but a sweet and lovely madonna named Elizabeth, swollen with child, makeup-less pale face' surrounded by a halo of soft red hair, holding shyly, lovingly, on to Allan's hand.

  What did she say? Widow?

  "What did you say?âť

  âśI said, I'm Mrs. Wood. Allan's widow.âť

  âśI didn't know about that," Johnny Oliver said softly. "Jesus Christ!âť

  âśIt's almost eighteen months," Liza Wood said. "About the time you went to Nam." How did she know when I went to 'Nam? That I went?

  "Oh, God, I'm sorry, Elizabeth," Oliver said. "I didn't know. How did it happen?âť

  âśHe lost consciousness as a result of wounds caused by enemy small-arms fire and consequently lost control of his aircraft, which crashed," Liza Wood said softly but bitterly, and obviously quoting words she had read so many times she had memorized them. "Allan was flying a Beaver, trying to land it on some Green Beret mountaintop. âś

  âśI hadn't heard," Oliver said softly.

  "I didn't think you had. I thought I would have heard from you if you had.âť

  âśYeah, of course.âť

  âśI hate to hide behind my widow's weeds, Johnny, but maybe if you told the General and his wife that I went through what Joan Dant went through today, they would understand why I acted the way I did.âť

  âśGeoff told me what happened," Oliver said. "And I took him to see General Bellmon, and I have it on impeccable authority that those two chancre mechanics. . . . Well, I don't have all the details, but they won't do anything like that again.

  But Geoff didn't know who you were. . . 'Or about Allan." She didn't answer for a long moment, then she said, "Well, I called ,to apologize, and now I have.âť

  âśWait!" he said. "Don't hang up!" Another long pause, then: "Why not?âť

  âśI'd like to see you, Elizabeth, to talk to you," Oliver said.

  "I call myself Liza now," she said after a moment.

  " 'Elizabeth' has too many memories connected with Allan. And for the same reason I don't think I-want to see you.

  Not today, anyway. We'd wind up talking about Allan, and after what happened to Joan Dant today. . ." Jack Dant got killed, not his wife. I think I know what she means.

  "Then we won't talk about Allan," Oliver blurted, and hearing what he had said, winced.

  There was a long silence.

  "That was a strange comment, Johnny," Liza said finally.

  âśI didn't mean it the way it sounded.âť

  âśHow did you mean it?âť

  âśI really wasn't thinking about making a pass at you," Oliver said. "You can believe that or not, it's the truth.âť

  âśIs that supposed to reassure me?" Liza asked. When there was no reply, she added, "I can handle passes, Johnny. I have had passes made at me by every sonofabitch in pants in Ozark, and by a surprising number of women, starting the day' after Allan's funeral. Most of which began with offers to help me through my grief.âť

  âśThe truth of the matter," Oliver said, somewhat coldly, resenting the implication that he was trying to get into her pants, "is that I am sitting here in my little cell, feeling sorry for myself, for. . . for a number of reasons. The only thing I have to look forward to tonight is getting drunk alone. Compared to that, having a couple of drinks with a pretty woman,

  even if that meant having to talk about her dead husband and my dead friend, seemed, at the moment, to be a desirable alternative." After the longest pause yet, Liza said, "It no longer does?âť

  âśYes, of course it does. Could you come out to the club. . . . No, of course not. I forgot about the kid.âť

  âśThe kid, whose name is Allan, is with his grandparents. I took him over there when I heard about Jack Dant. But I don't want to 'come out there.âť

  âśOK. Sorry."

  "I'd ask you here for a drink," Liza said. "But there's nothing in the house." Is that a gentle putdown? Or am I supposed to offer to bring my own bottle? ' "They sell all kinds of booze at the Class Six," Johnny said.

  "You bring a bottle and I'll go to the A & P and get something for supper. What would you like? Stupid question.

  I'll get steaks. It's the fifth house from the Dants'.âť

  âśWhat would you like from Class Six?" There was another, the last, hesitation, and then the phone went dead in his ear.

  She hung up. Because she didn't want to tell me what to get at the booze store? Or because she was on the edge of withdrawing the invitation?

  [THREE]

  123 Brookwood Lane Ozark, Alabama

  1705 Hours 12 January 1964

  Johnny Oliver found without trouble a mailbox with WOOD painted on it, pulled the Pontiac to the curb, got out, took out the bags from the back seat, and walked up the driveway.

  Liza Wood's house was larger than he expected it to be, almost as large, and thus almost as expensive, as Geoff Craig's house. And a colonel had been the original occupant of Geoff's house, not a first john. There was a Buick station wagon and a Chevrolet Corvair convertible in the carport. He saw the glow of lights in the kitchen, and went to the kitchen door. As he was looking for a doorbell button, the door opened.

  "I don't know why they put front doors on these houses," Liza said. "They never get used." Johnny saw that Liza had changed clothing since he had seen her at the Dants' (ony a few hours before, but it seemed like days). But the blouse or shirt or whatever it was called, and the slacks, if that name applied to stretch trousers that hooked under the feet like ski pants, were as high-fashion as the dress she had been wearing earlier.

  "Hello," he said.

  "Hello, Johnny. Come on in." He went inside and set the paper bags on a butcher block in the center of the kitchen.

  "Is that your strategy, Johnny? Ply the widow with booze?

  What have you got in there, anyway?" He felt his face flush with anger.

  He tore both bags down their sides so the bottles were exposed.

  "That's a bottle of scotch, a bottle of bourbon, a bottle of gin, and one of vermouth. Plus some wine. You hung up on me when I asked what you wanted from Class Six. So, trying to be a nice guy, I got some of each. And I already told you, trying to jump your bones is not on my agenda." He turned to look at her.

  She had moved back against one of the kitchen counters and had raised a leg so that her foot rested against the counter-a posture that served to draw the silk blouse tight against her chest. While he was sure it was entirely unintentional, the result was that he was made acutely aware of the , curves of her body. "Sorry," she said, and then raised her eyes to his and said it again: "Sorry. I mean it. You always were a nice guy. I should have remembered." After a moment he nodded his head curtly.